


Of Life and Lemons

by words_of_a_broken_man



Category: American Gods (TV), Flammen & Citronen | Flame & Citron (2008), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bedannibal - Freeform, Crossover, Electric Couple Prompts, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 05:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14098716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_of_a_broken_man/pseuds/words_of_a_broken_man
Summary: For @electric-couple prompt March.  Mads and Gillian crossovers.The New Gods have their eyes on a pair of wartime assassins.  American Gods x Flame and Citron crossover.





	Of Life and Lemons

He sways; wild eyed and nauseous, bile burning his throat as the room closes in once again. Hands flailing, senses failing he grabs for the bannister, tripping, tumbling down the stairs to the basement. The room spins and swirls, like the kaleidoscope he fleeced from that Jewish merchant months ago that left his daughter luminous with wonder. His eyes burn; pulse booming in his ears, his temples; head throbbing in time with his heart. He clears the final stair, clutching the bottle grimly in one hand; the all to familiar salivation begins, a prelude to the next wave of nausea. He lurches on unsteady legs, all but lost at sea. Stumbling against the small washbasin in a flurry of sweat, grime and heavy wool as the first wave hits; bile, vodka and nicotine stinging his throat as he heaves breathlessly.  

Sweat slick and exhausted, he slumps to the floor; bottle locked in a deathgrip in his left hand, the right groping for the pistol at his hip. He can still see the faces, smell the blood and gunpowder. The ringing in his ears subsides, and in that moment there is respite. Silence. He sleeps. 

***

“You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss…”

Louis Armstrong. American.

“A sigh is just a sigh…”

The radio crackles to life as he emerges from the fog.

“The fundamental things apply…”

Another sound. Feminine. An octave above Armstrong’s smoky croon she hums; the sweet, melodic duet easing his mind. He exhales deeply, tension ebbing away with every quaver. He must be dead, surely. Definitively. That’s not a sound from this life; certainly not his life. This is heaven and the angles sing the blues.

 

“Oh darling…”

 

Fingertips traverse the thicket of stubble guarding his chin, gently lifting his head, and that voice. It dances through the air, lithe and breathless into his ears, familiar yet foreign.

He blinks, shaking the fog, eyes struggling to focus though smeared lenses.

She smells exotic, expensive. Must be something French; musk, bergamot, white lilies and jasmine. He inhales deeply, suddenly acutely aware of his own stench… Nicotine, gunpowder and the sickly sweet aroma of a man sweating out a night’s worth of drink. He shudders, shifting violently as he scrambles to shrink into his coat in a desperate attempt to mask his wretched presence.

“Oh hush now…” Fingers brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

He blinks, focus returning.

“Ingrid…” He mutters in disbelief, pawing at his glasses. Frantically, he rubs the smeared lenses against the bottom corner of his shirt before clumsily replacing them. “Bergman?”

“Oh they have a lot of names for me, darling.”

She smiles, shaking her cascade of shimmering white curls from one shoulder to the other.

“But you, Citron.” She runs a fingertip across his lips as they part reflexively beneath her touch. “You’re no lemon, darling. You just need a little wash and a fresh coat of paint, you’ll be good as new in no time.”

Citron feels his blood pressure rise again, he reaches inside his coat, tapping a few pills into his open palm and dry swallowing them desperately.

“Oh darling you don’t need any more of those.” She fusses, shaking her head, blue eyes watching him intently. “Pills to stay away, drink to help you sleep… That’s no way for such a fine man to live.”

“I’m dreaming.” He mutters, pulling his glasses clumsily from his face to rub his eyes in disbelief.

“Oh no, darling. I’m every bit as real as you are.”

“Shouldn’t you be in Hollywood? Making films with the Americans?”

He pushes back against the wall, propping himself up in vain. Ingrid Bergman, resplendent in a perfectly tailored suit, blonde curls cascading down her shoulders, moonlight spilling through the window forming a perfect halo around her as she leans over him.

“Perhaps I am.” She stands up, slowly pacing in front of him, the click of her heels against the concrete floor echoing around him ominously.

“We’re at war, Citron.” She purrs. “Who’s side are you on.”

“Denmark’s side.” He snaps. “What kind of question is that?”

“Oh darling.” She laughs. “You men and your petty little quarrels. Of course you fight for the mother country.” She punctuates her words with an exaggerated fist pump. “Danes shooting Germans. Germans shooting French. Russians shooting Germans. English shooting Italians. Americans shooting the Japanese.” She shakes her head mockingly, as he shifts under her gaze.

“That Gobels.” She paces. “What he’s done with the cinema has been quite marvelous, although Eisenstein really started it all in Russia after the Bolsheviks threw out the Tsar…”

“I don’t understand.” Citron stares at her blankly. “What do movies have to do with anything?”

“Before film I was just the newspaper and a few old magazines.” She smiles. “Radio helped a great deal, even if you don’t know how to read you can still listen.”

“What do you want?”

“The real war is on the horizon, darling.” She stops, pivoting smoothly on one toe to face him.

The click of wooden heels on concrete punctures the silence. He can make out the shadowy figure descending the stairs. A tall, lean man emerges from the abyss, snaking an arm around Ingrid Bergman. Clad in an exquisite three-piece pinstripe suit, eyes shaded by the brim of a perfect felt fedora, light dancing across his sharp features.

“We’ve been watching you and your fire-haired friend.” Ingrid Bergman continues in a breathy whisper.

“Who are you?” Citron scrambles, fingers seeking the gun at his hip.

“We are the future.” An unusually high-pitched timbre echoes from the pinstripe man.

“And darling we want you to be a part of it…”

 

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> One of the oddest pairings I could think of? For some reason it appealed.
> 
> I wanted this to feel like being smashed.


End file.
